


Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off

by queenlara



Series: College Verse (the "of All Time" verse) [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, other characters but I don't want to tag them all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 23:21:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3429254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlara/pseuds/queenlara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest story of All Time. Or, the four times Natasha lied about her scar and the one time she didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From a Mountain in the Middle of the Cabins

**Author's Note:**

> I claim no ownership of the characters or the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Fic title and chapter title from Panic! At The Disco. This is a recurring theme with me, I just like their song titles. (and it spares me from having to come up with my own, so...)
> 
> Hopefully this will give you a little more insight on the AU and the backstory of Natasha (and James).

“A floor party? You have _got_ to be kidding me, Wilson. I don’t care about meeting the other people on my floor! And why would I want to go to anything sponsored by an RA? They’re just glorified babysitters.” James groans, flipping to the next page in his book and flopping over in Steve’s bed. “Let’s just chill here tonight.”

Natasha runs her fingers through her short, wet curls, detangling them as she perches on Sam’s desk. She’s wearing an oversized shirt she stole from James in high school and a pair of plain yoga pants, and she glances at Sam, who is too busy glaring at James to notice her look.

Sam is sitting on the corner of his own bed with his laptop angled away from prying eyes. “Come on man, I promised Rhodey we’d go. I owe him. We just have to swipe in with our ID cards, stay for half an hour, then we can leave! It’s his first program,” he emphasizes with a raised brow, “he needs us.”

Steve looks up from his sketchbook, where he’s been doodling Sailor Moon characters at his desk for the better part of an hour. “You’re already friends with Rhodey?”

“We go back a ways.” Sam waves it off. “I’ve already told you assholes this, why the fuck do you never listen?”

“I think it sounds fun,” Natasha says absently. “Don’t be such a killjoy, Barnes. You sound like a grumpy old _babushka_.”

“A _what_?” Steve asks. The pencil-scratch of pencil on paper stops abruptly, and he looks up with a raised eyebrow.

Natasha just grins at him. “Grandma,” she supplies with a slanted smirk.

Steve snorts. “That sure fits Buck. He may look like a badass, but on the inside he’s just a grumpy old mother-hen.”

James throws his book at the blonde, who dodges easily.

“You’re only angry ‘cause it’s true, Buck. You’re just a grumpy _babushka_ ,” Steve mimics, butchering the pronunciation of the Russian word.

“Anyways. Guys. We’re going to the floor party. Don’t give me that look, Barnes, you owe me. Remember when I saved your ass by buying you that computer program you needed at three in the fucking morning?” Sam says, pointing at the grumbling offender.

James puts his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, Natasha and Steve are sprinting down the hall towards the lounge in an impromptu race, and James is lost somewhere behind them, waving Steve’s inhaler about. Sam follows, attempting to choke down his laughter.

“Hey, glad you could make it,” Rhodey greets at the entrance, leaning back against the doorframe. “Rogers, why are you huffing and puffing? Nevermind, I really don’t care. Just swipe in and move out of the way. It’s game night, so pick something and pretend you’re having fun. I want to look good.”

He points towards a towering pile of boardgames, and the four file in the lounge, pausing only to swipe their ID in. Natasha grabs a game off of the top of the pile.

“Twister.”

James frowns. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Steve literally almost just had an asthma attack—”

“Shut up, Buck. First one to fall has to do anything the winner commands!” Steve says, pushing past James to stand next to Natasha.

“Deal,” the redhead grins, and shoves the spinner against James’ chest. “Here, tin man, just spin this and let the kids have some fun.”

**********

“Holy shit,” Sam huffs. “Natasha, how are you bending that way? I didn’t even know the human body _could_ do that.”

Natasha grins, and executes a perfect backbend to land her right hand on red. “Just watch and learn, Wilson.”

Steve had already collapsed and confessed that his body was really not that flexible. He was currently sitting next to James, calling out whatever the other spun.

In her prone position, Natasha’s t-shirt slides up and bares her flat stomach.

“Hey, what’s that?” Steve asks, pointing towards a large, sunburst-shaped red scar on her lower torso.

She glances at Steve, seeing the world upside down, and catches James’ imperceptible twitch beside him.

“Well,” she begins stoically, “It all began when James and I were on a camping trip with our foster father. James was gathering berries for our meal, and I was out hunting for our dinner with a crossbow. I was hiding in a bush, aiming at a seven point buck, when out of nowhere, a fucking _bear_ runs through the clearing and scares the shit out of it. I figured, ‘what the hell, guess we’ll have bear tonight instead.’ So I aim at the bear, but before I can fire, it hears me! With a roar, it charges at me, and I drop my crossbow to engage it in unarmed combat. The battle is evenly matched, but I emerge victor. My win came at the cost of sustaining a serious wound. Dragging my bloody prize back to camp, I collapse in front of James, who proceeded to scream and burst into tears.”

James blinks at the redhead and promptly bursts into laughter.

“What the actual fuck,” Sam exclaims from his contorted position on the mat. “You expect us to believe that?”

“I tell nothing but the truth, Samuel. I swear on James’ arm.”

“Don’t bring my arm into this, Romanoff,” James chokes out. Steve is also howling with laughter.

“Sam you should have seen your face! You honest to god thought she was serious!” Steve points towards the glowering boy. “I had no idea you were that gullible!”

“Shut it, Rogers.”

 


	2. Nails For Breakfast, Tacks For Snacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha permanently scars Thor for life because Americans are scary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title, again from Panic! At The Disco. Thor, a foreign exchange student from Sweden, makes an appearance. Jane Foster does as well. Natasha's Russian accent appears. She also probably scars Thor for life.

Natasha slings her backpack over one shoulder, already calculating how long it will take her to get to the quad. Walking down the hallway with a quiet pep to her step, she doesn’t expect to run directly into her Physics TA, Jane Foster.

“Foster, watch where you’re going. I don’t think Dr. Selvig would enjoy finding a new TA this early in the semester,” Natasha remarks with a small grin, steadying the tiny woman with a hand on her shoulder.

Before Jane can reply, a large man comes up behind them, six feet of solid muscle and long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Jane, are you hurt?” he asks, his accent thick over his tongue, and surprisingly, the TA blushes to the roots of her hair.

“Mr. Odinson, thank you, but I’m fine,” Jane assures him, sounding flustered as she hurriedly re-adjusts her blouse.

 _Man, she has it bad,_ Natasha thinks.

“While you’re here, Miss Romanoff, would you mind taking Mr. Odinson to the library? I said I would, but I really have to input this data for Dr. Selvig…” Jane trails off, biting her lip, and looks thoroughly abashed.

“Sure, no problem.” Natasha remarks, and Mr. Odinson— _oh my god look at that smile_ —waves at Jane as she hurries away.

“Please, call me Thor,” he tells her eagerly, and they begin walking towards the double doors at the end of the hall “So, you are a student at this, uh, university?”

“Yes,” Natasha replies, and her own Russian accent begins to bubble forth as she leads the way. “V-Where are you from?” She trips up slightly, but Thor doesn’t pay it any mind. He gives her another thousand-watt smile.

“Sweden,” he offers, and holds the door open for her. “And you, Miss Romanoff...are you American? I believe your accent is, ah, different?”

“Russia,” she answers simply, giving in and falling into her own accent.

“I’ve always wanted to visit there, but—” The way Thor’s impressive face turns instantly into that of a sad, concerned puppy is almost comical. “Miss Romanoff, what occurred—or should I say, happened—to you?” The foreign student stops in his tracks, gesturing to the angry scar on her torso that her crop-top leaves exposed.

Natasha flattens her expression and pulls him into the empty alcove by the door. “I will warn you, Odinson—Americans are not to be trusted. You must not tell any what I tell you, but take it as warning.”

Thor, his face apprehensive, nods eagerly. “I will not,” he promises.

“These men, Americans, they carry guns everywhere. No regard to others. They carry them to store, church, school—anywhere,” she elaborates, her accent thick over her tongue.

“My second day in America. I walk to market, and, these men, they yell at me. They say I cross road when I was not supposed to, and they are very angry. Ones pulls out gun, and wham! _They shoot me_.” She ends on a whisper, the foreign student’s eyes wide as saucers.

“Then they leave. ‘Welcome to America’, they tell me. Odinson, you must believe me. These people? Crazy. _Absolute crazy_. In Mother Russia, they would not leave me living. They are weak to do so, even Russian child knows this. Americans are fools.” Natasha scoffs, then flings her hand up, pointing a finger at a building across the way.

“There is library. _Watch your back_ , Odinson, or they will get you, too.” Natasha pantomimes a knife cutting her throat with her finger, and tries to contain her laughter as Thor gulps comically and hurries off across the quad, shoulders hunched as though he is trying to make himself invisible.


	3. I Have Friends in Holy Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha lets Sam feel the wrath of all seventeen members of the scrapbooking club. Phase guns are not a joke, kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Panic! At The Disco. (again).

“Natasha, _come on_. We’re going to Hobby Lobby to pick up some scrapbooking shit,” Sharon says, glancing at her redheaded roommate. The rest of the scrapbooking club waits behind her, chatting about their favorite vines. Natasha can hear one of the girls cackling and imitating “Mister steal yo girl!”

“I’ll be there in a second,” she answers absently, trying to find her phone and stuff it in her bag. She’s still pissed that Sam wouldn’t come with her and the group last night to Cookout, leaving her stuck between Dumb (Steve) and Dumber (James) and their awful, unresolved sexual tension. It had been physically painful, watching those dumbasses face off, James bitching about when Steve punched some guy—who was harassing a girl at a frat party, so he definitely deserved it—and then the guy beat the shit out of Steve.

James was pissed, Steve was defensive (and very sad-looking in that sling), and it took all of Natasha’s patience to not bury her head in her hands and scream. Sam had pleaded that he had planned some Skype date with his online friends and had _abandoned her_ to the forces that were Barnes and Rogers.

Once she’s ready to leave, she stretches her hands above her head, her shirt riding up on her stomach.

“Oh my god, Nat, what is that?” Skye—a doe-eyed girl with a bad habit of chewing bubblegum _all the time_ —exclaims as a bubble pops over her face. Her friend giggles as she tries to peel off the mess, but the rest of the girls have their eye on her stomach.

“Oh, this?” Natasha says casually, brushing the scar with her fingers. She leans forward, as if sharing a great secret: “You know Sam Wilson, the guy I hang with a lot? See, he’s a _huge_ Star Trek nerd,” she begins, and a few girls burst into whispers at this proclamation. “He dragged me to one of his nerd conventions because he had bought a ticket for Steve, but he had to back out at the last second because of a project he had due. It was a stroke of luck for Rogers, because who knows what would have happened if he had been there.”

“ _And?_ ” Bobbi Morse asks impatiently. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting there, Morse, keep your pants on,” Natasha answers wryly, and Bobbi sticks her tongue out in response.

“So he makes me wear this weird outfit—don’t ask where he got my measurements, either—and drags me there. We’re walking around, I’m just in awe of the shear amount of nerds in one space, when some guy gets all up in my business, claiming I’m just some fake geek girl or some shit. While I don’t know anything about Star Trek, that rubs me the wrong way. So I’m about to end this like a lady—and by that I mean nailing him where it hurts—Sam steps up, and tells me not to cause trouble. And the other guy pulls out a legitimate phase gun. I’m too busy laughing when I find out the hard way that phase guns are real, and they hurt like a sonofabitch.”

The girls are gaping at her, and Skye sputters out, “What did Wilson do?”

“Drops me off at the nearest first aid station—not to mention I’m bleeding everywhere—and goes off to enjoy the convention.”

“That asshole!” Exclaims Bobbi’s friend, Jemma. “I can’t believe the nerve of some guys!”

“And here’s the worst part,” Natasha says, leaning forward,” _he never even apologized_.” At this, the girls burst out into angry chatter, and Sharon leans forward.

“Nat, I know that’s a lie, but what the _hell_ did Wilson do to earn the ire of all seventeen members of the scrapbook club?”

“Don’t ask,” her roommate grouses. “But he definitely deserves it.”

**********

One week, three days, seven hours, and 28 minutes after Natasha told her story, Jemma and Skye (who were currently dating and oh-so-adorable) run into Natasha’s table at the dining hall. She’s currently sitting with James, Sharon, Sam, and Steve trying to eat the barely-edible dining hall food.

“Nat, Sharon!” Jemma says, waving enthusiastically, when her eyes narrow in on Sam, who is pecking at his food while typing on his phone.

_“You.”_ Skye frowns, her grip tightening on her girlfriend’s hand. “I can’t believe the nerve of you, sitting by Nat and pretending you did nothing wrong!”

Jemma nudges Skye while shooting a nasty glare at Sam. “Let’s go, Skye. I don’t want to look at him anymore.”

Sam, bewildered, looks around the table as Sharon and Natasha burst into peals of laughter.

“Uh, what just happened?”

“Natasha made you enemies with all seventeen members of the scrapbooking club,” Sharon laughs.

“Wait, what? The scrapbooking club—you guys are in the scrapbooking club? Seriously? And why do they look at me like they want to push me off of the nearest cliff? Natasha? Sharon? _Answer me_ , damn it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Natasha and Sharon are in the scrapbooking club. Yes, I made Jemma/Skye canon and nobody can stop me. Also, pretty much every background character's name comes from MCU (that way I don't have to struggle over making up names).
> 
> As always, R&R! Comments are always appreciated. Also, Tina should be posting another part of the series soon, so strap in folks.


	4. Pas de Cheval

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha is vice president of the parasailing club, and currently the only member who has ever been parasailing. Clint Barton is the self-appointed president and team captain, and as obnoxious as ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Panic! At The Disco. (Do I have to put this disclaimer every time? Who knows. One chapter left!)

“What’s up, Nat?” Clint says, walking into the classroom. Today was the monthly parasailing meeting, and she was in charge of bringing snacks this time. Not that she had any say in this, since Clint took it upon himself to make her the vice president, and therefore, in charge of the shit he didn’t want to do.

“Nothing much, Mister President,” she answers, unpacking the last box of single-serving Cheeto bags. “By the way, are we ever going to go parasailing? The nearest beach is like, six hours away.”

“Patience, patience, my vice president,” Barton answers, wiggling his eyebrows as he drops his backpack on a desk.

Natasha grimaces at the table. “Why am I the VP, Barton? I’ve literally been parasailing once. Isn’t there someone more qualified for this? We didn’t even hold a vote.”

“Does this look like a democracy? Besides, you’ve been parasailing one more time than me, so I thought you’d come in handy.” Clint grabs a marker and begins to write “PARASAILING TEAM MEETING” on the whiteboard in sloppy capital letters.

Natasha freezes, turning to stare at the president. “If you’ve never gone parasailing, why the fuck are you the president of the club and captain of the team?”

“I thought it’d look good on my resume.” Clint shrugs, capping the market and dropping it on the desk next to his backpack.

Rolling her eyes, Natasha leans down to grab the box of sodas she left on the floor, but stops at Clint’s soft gasp.

“Miss Natasha Romanoff, _what is that?_ Has my vice president been keeping secrets from me?”

She can only assume he’s referencing the back side of her scar, since the bullet went straight through, leaving a matching set of scars on front and back.

Setting the box carefully next to the rest of the snacks she had laid out, she turns around to frown at Clint, mentally scrambling about what to tell him. She has spun quite a few funny stories to distract from the truth of the scar, but Clint is exceptional at reading people. He’s partially deaf, and though he has hearing aids he mostly relies on lipreading. Because of this, he pays careful attention to people’s expressions, and could easily catch a lie.

 _But if it was a blatant, obvious lie_ , she thinks, _it doesn’t mean he’d know I what I was trying to cover up._

“In high school, I was forced to do community service after graffiting the water tower. They cited some bullshit reason of “defacing property and the community”—even though that was ridiculous, because my art was beautifying the community—and I ended up stuck in an old people home, in charge of leading the knitting club.”

Clint’s eyebrows were slowly raising as she continue talking, and he holds up a hand to stop her. “You know how to knit? That’s bullshit—”

“ _As I was saying._ I had to lead the knitting circle, and most of the ladies were nice, even if their knitting skills weren’t quite up to par. But one day, only one lady showed up—an ex KGB agent named Sylvia. Generally, we got along quite well, but today, she was on edge. She had already thrown her mashed potatoes at a nurse, and was trying to escape all day because she said she had ‘a mission to complete.’ So, here I am, trying to help the community by teaching her how to knit, when she fucking stabbed me with a knitting needle, and then—”

Clint interrupted, “A knitting needle made a scar that size?”

“It was a 19 mm knitting needle, Barton, don’t you know anything? As I was saying, she stabs me through, and with surprising agility for a 75 year old woman, she jumps over the couch and runs out the patio. And that’s how I got out of 100 hours of community service, because they felt being stabbed by an ex-KGB agent excused me from the rest of the time,” Natasha finishes. Barton’s eyebrows are up by his hairline now, and before he can ask any more questions, the classroom door opens and the members of the club pile in, clamoring for snacks.

“Don’t think this is over, vice president!” Clint calls to her as she moves towards the snack table. “ _We discuss this later, missy!”_

 


	5. Far Too Young To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one time Natasha tells the truth about her scar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Panic! At The Disco. The warnings for this fic apply in this chapter, guys. Mentions of violence and panic attacks. I hope you guys came ready because we've got some feelings in store for you.

“Now, Miss Romanoff,” Chancellor Fury says, moving to take a seat behind his polished oak desk, the university logo proudly displayed behind him, “I know that you and Mr. Barnes weren’t willing to talk about what happened before the gang war, but I’ve been more than generous. I need to know everything that happened. With this new drug on the streets, I have to have all the information I can before we go up against this.”

“Why didn’t you talk to James?” Natasha asks, ignoring the chair in favor of leaning against the wall.

“You made it clear when you started at this university that you wanted him to have a normal college experience. Your tuition and fees are being paid for, and you’re getting a new start. But you have to live up to the bargain.” His expression softens a bit, and he adds, “I know it was painful, but do your best.”

Natasha nods, gathering her thoughts. It has been one year, two months, and 26 days since it happened. Since James lost his arm.

**********

Natasha moves with practiced ease into the small room she shares with James at the back of the warehouse. James is lounging on the couch, reading a book on biotechnology, forgoing a shirt in favor of a ratty pair of sweats. While they had already agreed that things wouldn’t work out between them after they had tumbled around once in bed, nothing stopped her from a healthy appreciation of his toned chest.

Natasha nods at him and tosses him a sheathed knife. “You’re with me, Barnes.”

He looks up, surprised. “You need backup?”

“It’s a high profile drug, and the cash reflects that. I’m not all that intimidating, so you just have to stand there and glower. Shouldn’t be too hard, for you.”

“Watch that tone, Romanova.”

After arming themselves to the teeth with knives, Bucky drives them to the drop site in an old pickup truck lended to them by a fellow gang member. They arrive at the drop site early, and Natasha pulls James over.

“Behave yourself, Barnes, and don’t come until I call,” she says in Russian. “I will take them out, and you’ll go in and grab the drugs. Don’t kill unless necessary, and don’t get distracted. I can handle two thugs armed with knives. They won’t have time to realize what is happening..”

James nods, serious now. “Be careful, Romanova. Confidence will get you killed.”

She stands, arms crossed in a gesture meant to intimidate as a low-riding car rolls up and two men get out. Their faces are similar, and she assumes they’re brothers. She is immediately suspicious of the careless way they move, the grins on their faces. They act as if they’re in on a secret that she doesn’t know, and Natasha automatically tenses.

“You’re the one they sent to pick this up? Sure you can handle it, sweetheart?” The driver mocks, leaving his car door open and resting his hand on the roof of the car.

“Come over here so we can talk like adults,” she taunts, calculating the distance she needs to get him within her grasp.

He gestures to the man riding shotgun, who moves towards her, key in hand. “The drugs are in the trunk, locked safely,” he says with a jerk of his head, gesturing to the car in question. “After you give us the money, we’ll give you the key.”

Natasha purses her lips. “That doesn’t sound fair at all,” she drawls, and as soon as he’s in her range she launches towards him, elbowing him sharply in the solar plexus and kicking him in the knee. It dislocates with a crack, and he screams. Natasha is already moving towards the driver before she notices the .44 Magnum Revolver in his hands.

_Shit! Bringing a handgun to a knife fight_ , she thinks, and before James can cry out or she can alter her path, he pulls the trigger, and she’s flung back, her abdomen on fire with pain.

She curls up, hands pressed on the wound and hazy with pain and blood loss, as she hears James feet run past her towards the man. It happens in a blink—car door slamming, tires squealing, a thump. And then the car screeches away, but not before James lets out a noise so wrecked in agony that she instinctively reaches out, vision blurry, as James holds on to his mangled left arm— _That’s not how his arm looks, why is there blood everywhere, he hasn’t stopped screaming_ —and she moves forward across the ground, inching towards James, reaching for him.

Her mind echoes with thoughts of a hospital, and she moves towards James, dragging his good arm over her shoulder. She only makes it fifty feet away from the scene when she tumbles, and there’s horrified screams around her.

_I have to save James, he was right, I was overconfident, and his arm... his arm!_

She hears frantic people around her, but all she can see is James Buchanan Barnes, her brother, her friend, her partner. People try and pry her off of him, but she holds tightly.

“James!” she screams, “James! _James!_ ” But her vision is fading and her strength is too, and she’s dragged into unconsciousness, the screaming pain in her abdomen throbbing and dripping.

Natasha awakens the same way she fell unconscious—shrieking and thrashing. There are hands holding her down—no, maybe straps—and she thrashes until she sees James in the bed next to her, unconscious. An empty sleeve of a hospital gown hangs where his left arm should be; she stops thrashing in favor of dry-heaving.

She hears the nurse bustle in and drop her clipboard at the sight of Natasha’s dry-heaves, and she yells for something, a syringe with a wicked needle. Too soon, she lurches back into unconscious.

The next time she’s awake, James is awake next to her, a haunted look in his eyes, caught somewhere on the ceiling.

“James,” she calls quietly, and he looks over at her. Gripping her bedsheet tightly in her hands, she fights for control over her voice. “Your arm, I’m….I am sorry. It is my fault,” she croaks in Russian, and his eyes soften.

“Natalia, please…” He says slowly, answering in kind, but she turns away. She can’t look at him and see her failure written all over him in the loss of his arm. Her fists clench tighter and she’s already retreated inside her head, planning, calculating. _Get James a prosthetic. Hide. They can’t know we’re alive. James can’t be pulled back into this._

**********

Natasha finishes telling the story to Chancellor Fury, mechanically, detailed, leading up to the moment that he walked through the doors of their hospital room with an offer and a bargain.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, Ms. Romanoff. Now, I see that you and Barnes have gotten close to Wilson and Rogers,” at that, Fury stares at her, and Natasha holds his look. “They’re normal boys—well, not exactly _normal_ , but close enough—and I know you and Barnes deserve good lives, but you have to be careful. If those gangs find out you’re not dead, you’d not only endanger yourself, but everyone around you. They’re civilians—don’t drag them into this.”

Natasha nods, her stomach bunching up, sick and nervous. Without a farewell, she spins on her heel and walks as quickly out of the office as she can without arousing suspicion.

By the time she makes it to her dorm, she’s halfway to a full panic attack, gulping in as much air as possible. Her hands shaking as she unlocks her door, she doesn’t see Sam come up behind her, placing an arm around her shoulders. Natasha freezes, muscles locked in place and the hallway spinning around her, the floor of her stomach falling out, a bottomless pit of _fear_ , and she can’t breathe, she’s choking—

“Natasha?” Sam asks carefully, nudging her door open and leading her into the cramped dorm room. He guides her to her bed, sits her on the edge. “You’re having a panic attack. I need you to tell me what you want.”

Natasha is frozen, trembling. She’s half here and half bleeding out, screaming as James is taken away on a stretcher, she can hear his anguished cry at the loss of his arm—

“ _Natasha_. Stay in the present. Stay here. Breathe with me.”

The fear begins to seep away as she mechanically matches Sam’s slow, even breathing pattern. Reality begins to solidify around her, and she blinks, breaking free from the memory’s grasp.

“Better now?” Sam asks, standing up and dusting off his jeans. He moves over towards her mini fridge, grabs two cans of Arizona Iced Tea and tosses one towards her. She catches it automatically.

“How do you—I mean, how did you know I was having a panic attack?” Natasha asks, popping the tab on the can, the coldness of the metal anchoring her.

Sam smiles tightly, and she suddenly remembers that outside of her and Barnes’ drama, Sam has his own baggage to deal with. “I used to get them a lot after the accident when my parents died. Not so much anymore, but I know how much they suck.”

They sit in silence for a while, and Natasha appreciates his decision to not pry. While she wasn’t planning on telling him—or anyone—about what happened with the gang, she thinks Chancellor Fury was making a tactical error dismissing Wilson and Rogers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Read & Review. Tina is working on another fic featuring Steve and Natasha being stupid and worrying James and Sam. I haven't figured out what I'm planning to work on next for this, but I have some ideas jotted down. Feel free to message either of us with any questions about the AU or if we missed any grammatical/format errors!


End file.
